


entwined

by 0neType, LyraLV



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dreamtale, Alternate Universe - Shattered Dream, Alternate Universe - XTale, Angst, First Date, Fluff, Holding Hands, M/M, Romance, Tension, Undertale Multiverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 11:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30088644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0neType/pseuds/0neType, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraLV/pseuds/LyraLV
Summary: Cross has been looking worn out lately, and Dream decides to fix it.Even if that means going on a date.
Relationships: Cross/Shattered Dream, Dark Cream
Comments: 6
Kudos: 109





	entwined

**Author's Note:**

> For **[Dark Cream Week](https://zu-is-here.tumblr.com/post/643293356941803520/dark-cream-week)** 's Day 7 Prompt: Hand in Hand!

Cross is exhausted.

This, in itself, is nothing strange or new. Cross always looks exhausted as of late. Grey under his sockets, a frayed edge to his smile. Tired, regardless of the amount of sleep he gets or the things he does. Dream has watched him go through the motions of a usual day, getting dressed, making breakfast, staring into space. It’s disconcerting.

Dream wouldn’t go as far as to say that he’s worried but…

He doesn’t like it.

Maybe that’s why when Cross slips into bed that night, turning on his side with his back to Dream and pulling the covers over his head with a soft ‘goodnight’, Dream reaches out and shakes him by the shoulder. The weary skeleton faces him, sockets half-lidded with a plea for rest. Dream searches his expression, studies the dimness of Cross’ aura, drinks in his feelings, and finds the taste lacking.

“We should go on a date,” he says abruptly, too loud in the quiet around them.

Cross blinks, slow and uncomprehending. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not particularly complicated,” Dream drawls, watching closely for the minute shifts in his companion’s demeanor. Cross’ vestigial breathing makes his chest rise and fall easily, the blanket covering his black-clad chest. A part of Dream longs to run his phalanges across the top of it, feeling out the broadness underneath. He restrains himself. “A date. I won’t even demand a certain level of grandeur for it.”

Though the room is lightless, Cross eyelights burn in the dark, twin beacons cutting through to him. “...You’re serious.”

“Obviously.”

“We live in a void. You can’t leave. Not without being overwhelmed.”

“And?” Dream says, a little haughty. “Don’t tell me a little something like _restrictions_ is enough to keep you from spending the day with me.”

Ignoring the fact that Cross spends the day with him regardless. Every day, Cross is by his side. He only ever leaves when Dream asks for something the void cannot provide. Dream likes to call them ‘grocery runs’. On good days, Cross will smile when he says it.

“I didn’t say that,” Cross muses, turning over to lay flat on his back. He stares up at the ceiling, hands folded across his chest. “A date…”

Despite himself, Dream feels an ugly anxiety settle over his corrupted soul. A whispering voice in his head that laughs and chides him for his foolish assumptions.

Why would Cross ever want to do something like this with him? Why, when he’s already serving Dream to the utmost of his ability? And what is Dream’s endgame here? Did he really think offering this to Cross would be a relief? How could he not see that this is just another burden for the already aggrieved skeleton to shoulder? It’s just another task to push through.

“Okay.”

Dream startles, thoughts interrupted as he meets Cross’ gaze.

“‘Okay’?” he repeats, confused.

Cross raises a brow-bone at him. “Yeah. Let’s go on a date. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Dream parrots, suddenly feeling way out of his depth. He doesn’t let it show, plastering a wide smile over his face. “Excellent. Should make for an interesting day.”

The expression on Cross’ face is nothing short of bemused. He gets like that sometimes when Dream speaks—this gentle smile at his teeth and inexplicable fondness twinkling in his eyelights. Dream doesn’t acknowledge it. Doing so would only force it out into the open, and if there’s anything Dream has learned from living with Cross, it’s that he doesn’t do well with being cornered.

No… if Dream wants to continue enjoying the way Cross looks at him sometimes when his guard is down, he’s better off not mentioning it.

“Get some rest then,” Dream says instead, turning his back to the skeleton. “We wouldn’t want to start our date sleepless.”

There’s a murmured noise of agreement from Cross, but Dream can feel his gaze on his back long after he’s turned away from him. For a moment, he thinks Cross will reach out—that he’ll try and wrap an arm around his middle and sleep pressed together. His tentacles coil and uncoil, restless, unconsciously moving towards Cross on the sheets. But then, Cross shifts and turns to face the other side and that puts an end to that. Within minutes, his aura levels out, fast asleep.

Dream stays awake, thinking hard about what he’s gotten himself into.

Morning arrives after long hours of overthinking and overanalyzing the potential mess Dream has signed himself up for. He’s aware of Cross’ sentimental feelings towards him, or at least towards whom he used to be. Encouraging that behavior likely isn’t the smartest of decisions.

The corruption whispers that he can use this, he can use the date as an opportunity to build up Cross’ hope that Dream is finally ‘changing’ and then strike him down when he least anticipates it. The shattered positive feelings will be more than plentiful in sustaining Dream with power. It would give him a wonderful boost of energy that he’s allowed to grow slack as of late.

However… quite curiously and rather alarming, Dream finds he doesn’t want to do that.

He knows what his newfound power is telling him, and it would be so easy to take advantage of Cross like this. And yet, the more Dream considers the possibility, the more he feels ill. Unsettled. The notion almost disturbs him, and he can’t puzzle out why when not too long ago he would have leaped at the opportunity to make Cross suffer for the sake of strengthening himself.

No, it just wouldn’t be right. Not after how weakened Cross has been lately.

By the time Cross begins to stir in bed after an unending night, Dream has already determined that he’ll go through with the date without the intent of turning it around and breaking Cross’ tentative hope. He’s not concerned at all about encountering any positive feelings of his own today, especially when doing so would only weaken himself. He’ll remain aloof about the whole matter, pretending for Cross that he feels a fraction of happiness, and then afterwards, perhaps it will be enough to placate his bodyguard.

Dream ignores just how the corruption seethes at him for resisting the easy target.

Cross groans and stretches in bed, finally shaking off whatever dreams he was having. He lies in place for a bit, soft breathing filling the quiet. Dream himself keeps his back to him. If he feigns sleep, he might be able to dodge a conversation mentioning his hasty suggestion last night.

Unfortunately, it seems he’s let Cross become too keen and comfortable with calling him out.

There’s a rustle of fabric, the sheets hissing as Cross moves. Dream feels him near, the subtle displacement of air brushing over his shoulder like Cross’ hand is hovering overtop, uncertain about touching him. Instead, the hand is placed on the bed, and Dream releases a tense breath.

“Dream…?” Cross says, voice hushed. “You awake?”

Dream rolls his eyelight. “Maybe I wouldn’t be if you’d asked me that without whispering it directly against my skull,” he says, not at all sulking.

Cross sputters and hastily shifts back. At his predictable shyness, Dream feels a smile oddly climb up his face until his soul recoils like it’s been burnt. He keeps his posture relaxed, but internally, Dream winces at the sharp flare of pain at the unexpected positivity.

Well, that was certainly odd. Seems that the lack of sleep is confusing even him.

He rolls onto his back and stares at the soldier who’s sitting up and abashedly rubbing the back of his head. He meets Dream’s penetrating gaze until he flushes and then glances down at the bed sheets pooled in his lap.

Dream watches on, musing. “You should get started with your day,” he says. “My brother won’t hunt himself down.”

Cross flinches at the words, abruptly looking ages older than he truly is, and it draws Dream’s attention to the dark shadows under his eyes once more. Maybe Cross thinks Dream has forgotten all about last night. The dejection on his face is striking, profound negativity near tangible from the skeleton.

It’d be so easy to go along with the act. Pretend he’s forgotten all about his proposal and instead push Cross as he’s always done.

“It wouldn’t do for us to miss out on our date later today,” he says instead and watches the way Cross’ eyesockets widen.

He twists a bit to the side to look down at Dream as the hope from before reemerges and brightens the dim aura around him.

Still, he looks unconvinced, as if he can’t quite believe this isn’t another dream—or nightmare. “Y’sure?” he asks, brow-bone furrowing.

“Report to me in approximately five hours,” Dream says in lieu of response while studying one of his gloved hands. “Regardless of the status of your search. I expect you to not keep me waiting. This is for you, after all.”

He expects the words to make one of Cross’ tiny, involuntary smiles appear, like they do whenever he finds something Dream says as endearing. He’s not expecting to peer back over and see the dark cloud come over Cross’ face again, something ugly forming in his expression as his mouth quirks down.

“‘For me.’ Right.” Cross pushes the sheets off of himself and stands. It’s such an unaccounted for reaction that Dream sits up as well, perplexed. Isn’t this what Cross has wanted? Why the sudden change in mood?

Cross doesn’t seem interested in explaining himself, of course. He shuffles towards the drawer of clothes that they share. His shoulders are slumped, and he pointedly keeps his face turned from Dream as he gathers his clothes for the day. “I’ll be sure to be back on time, then, boss.”

His blank tone frustrates Dream, causing himself to grimace in annoyance at Cross’ pointed hollowness.

“Cross,” Dream begins, clipped, but then he notices the way Cross is staring at the dresser, an article of clothing in his hand that Dream can’t make out.

“If this is for _me_ ,” Cross says, slow and deliberate, still not facing him. “Can I make a request?”

After a pause, he allows it. “You may…”

Cross whirls around at that, and Dream finally catches a glimpse of the dress-shirt in his hand. It’s a pale yellow button-down, embroidered through with intricate, golden foliage. Dream hasn’t worn it in ages—not since taking this form. He frowns at it, looking up from the clothing to meet Cross’ gaze.

“Dress up.” Cross’s voice is firm, just short of demanding. It would get Dream’s hackles raised if it weren’t for the fact that this is Cross, and Cross is loyal to him, has _always_ been loyal to him. Dream knows that all it would take is a simple reminder of who’s in charge for Cross to back down immediately. More to the point though, Cross’ expression is tinged through with a plea.

It bleeds into his voice as he continues, arm gesturing out helplessly. “I’ll go out. I’ll take care of whatever needs doing for today. But when I come back, I…” Dream can almost hear him swallow. Can certainly feel the way his aura wavers and shakes. “I don’t want something one-sided. I want our date to be real. Or to at least feel like it.”

An awkward silence descends between them, Cross not quite meeting his eye in the aftermath, looking down and away, his shoulders starting to tremble. Dream doesn’t like it. He would much rather see Cross proud and bold and grinning—if only to feed on the crash of his emotions in the inevitable fallout of his high. As it is, his somber attitude leaves a dry, unpalatable taste in his mouth.

“...Dressing up would make it real for you?” he asks, quiet.

Cross glances up at him, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. When he sees that Dream is asking him a genuine question, he nods, short.

“Alright then, I’ll dress up,” Dream agrees, shoving down the blossoming warmth in his soul as Cross’ head snaps up, incredulous and hopeful in equal parts. He’s not quick enough, the pain of positivity crackling through his bones all the way up to his skull, leaving a dull throbbing there as the dust settles, a definite headache.

He lifts a hand halfway to his head before he can stop himself and remember that he’s not alone. Cross makes a worried noise and takes a step towards him.

“Boss?”

Dream sighs, doing his best to smooth away the wince painted on his face. “It’s nothing. Quickly finish up whatever you need to do before you leave so that the day isn’t wasted.”

“...Yeah. Ok,” Cross says, and it’s obvious he’s picked up on the clear dismissal.

Dream waits until he hears the bedroom door shut behind him and then rests his forehead in the palm of his hand. It’s not stinging as sharp as moments before, but it’s a telltale warning that if he wants to avoid a much more severe side effect, then he needs to keep his emotions in check.

The way he’s already reacted just this morning is ridiculous. Dream reminds himself that he doesn’t feel anything for Cross and only recognizes him for the tool he was always meant to be. The unintended bursts of positive feelings must simply be a fluke, that’s all. He’ll be careful to keep them from reoccurring.

He’s not certain how long he sits in the quiet solitude of their—his—room, but the silence continues on for long enough that Dream realizes too much time has passed for Cross to merely be going through his morning routine. Extending his senses, he finds no hint of any emotion, positive or negative, besides his own. Cross has left him alone in the void again.

Dream isn’t sure why it rubs him wrong, though he can certainly say that the isolation is more overbearing this time. Once he’s noticed it, he can’t quite shake his attention from the looming silence, and it’s what urges him to get up and begin his own day, headache be damned.

He’s about to reach for his usual outfit when he spies the shirt Cross held out to him earlier, now neatly resting on the top of the dresser. Dream frowns at it as distaste weighs heavy on his tongue. The clothing is a remnant of his past, someone Cross keeps clinging on to with foolish determination, and Dream doesn’t take too kindly to the attempt to draw back out old memories.

Still. This is for Cross. Dream did agree to his terms, and he doesn’t want to retract his offer after seeing the soft, brightening glow in Cross’ eyelights. It’s only for one day, after all. And it’s not like Cross tried to urge him to wear something far more nostalgic, such as his old scarf.

Dream picks up the shirt with only the smallest of grumbling, grabs a pair of slacks that might just be slightly nicer than what he normally wears, and then heads for the shower.

Perhaps it's just the solitude getting to him, but Dream feels as though time ticks by a lot slower as he spends considerate attention to freshening up. So much so that steam in the bathroom makes his head feel light, and when he finally dresses for the day, he finds himself bracing against the vanity for fear that he might just tip over.

Or maybe that can be blamed on the itching panic that makes his fingers shake as he buttons up the dress shirt. It’s so unnatural yet familiar against his bones, the corruption claiming it as its own as it drips along the soft fabric. But despite the initial flare of concern, the pale yellow color still shines through, not quite tarnished, and the delicate embroidery stands out along the cuffs of his sleeves.

Dream makes the mistake of glancing up at himself in the mirror and freezes. His soul stutters as for an infinitesimal second, he sees not his own face but the face of whom he used to be. The weaker version stares back, wide eyesockets mirroring his own, as does the hand that slowly reaches up to touch his cheek.

A blink later and the vision is gone. Dream shakily plants both hands on the countertop and gasps.

Damn Cross for making him endure this. Damn him for stirring up that which has been buried and replaced by someone who is stronger.

He grits his teeth, gloved hands creaking as he clenches them into fists. Rather than focusing on how terribly he’s shivering or the brewing mess of anxious worry and abnormal heartache, Dream directs his energy into his anger. Anger at Cross, anger at himself, anger at his cowardly brother for prolonging this idiotic chase. If Dream could just find him, his nights of screaming terror would end. He could put everything to rest and not have to constantly send Cross out again and again, leaving him alone in this cursed void merely because stepping out of it is too overwhelming.

He just needs to regain control. Then, he can finally relax.

Dream deliberately eases his ragged panting, pushing one slow breath out after another. It’s not often he loses his grip on his emotions like that. Not when he’s awake, at least. If Cross saw him now, carrying that same frantic fear into the day, he wouldn’t regard Dream as the powerful being that he is. Maybe he’d see it as a window of opportunity—think that the ‘real’ Dream was secretly trapped inside the corruption and fighting back.

It’s a thought that drags a pale huff of amusement from him, and he slowly eases back up, tentacles curling distractingly behind him.

Dream will show Cross. Something like this doesn’t affect him at all, and Cross will see that no matter what, this is who Dream will always be from now on. He made his choice.

It’s merely a matter of waiting for Cross to come home after that. The day passes without further incident, and Dream uses the time to distract himself with finding recipes that he could use to make tonight’s meal. That’s the standard for a date, right? Cooking for each other?

Or perhaps Cross has a different plan entirely.

No matter. Dream’s certain Cross wants to be involved in some way, and this could be a sign of him actively making an attempt for both of them.

The only problem is for all his determination to please Cross with his involvement, as Dream flips through pages and pages of multiple recipe books, he discovers that he’s immeasurably out of his depth. Not even that, but laughably so. He’s never been experienced in the kitchen. Cooking just never fascinated Dream, not even in the past centuries, though he does recall a multitude of occasions where his attempts ended in disaster.

Aggravated, Dream slams shut the current recipe book in his lap with a loud sigh. Hours have passed, and he’s gotten nowhere. Funny how he told Cross not to waste his time today, and here Dream feels as though he’s managed to do exactly that.

Perhaps it’s fitting that at that exact moment, he hears the splitting of code fragments from another room, followed quickly by the familiar, and admittedly, welcome emotions specific only to Cross.

He puts the book aside and stands up, poised and elegant, smoothing down his slacks and straightening his spine. He can hear the rustling of Cross’ movements just around the corner, near the portal he created to return through. Dream trails after it, pace steady, doing his utmost not to appear too eager. He schools his expression neutral, though already there’s a _thump-thumping_ in his soul as he considers the events that lay ahead, this date he’s promised.

“Welcome back,” Dream greets, only just barely biting himself off from calling this place home. That’s too sentimental a thought for playing pretend, no matter how real Cross wants to make this seem.

He speaks before Cross turns around, which is just as well because when the skeleton shifts to face him, Dream is rendered mute.

Cross looks dashing. He’s dressed in monochrome as always, his pants white and his shirt a deep black. He has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off the scarred bones of his arms, beautiful in a haunting, painful way that Dream savours the taste of whenever he gets a glimpse. His shoes are polished, and his belt is a simple black line with criss-crossed braids of white.

He’s handsome. He always has been.

What stands out the most to Dream, however, are two things. First is the tie Cross is wearing, a shimmery gold that matches Dreams crown. The colour choice must be intentional, stark against the black canvas of his dress-shirt, eye-catching every time it glimmers in the light.

The second is the bouquet in Cross’ hands.

“For you,” Cross says, walking up to him with the flowers held out.

Wordlessy, Dream takes them from him, cradling the arrangement in his grasp. Sunflowers and chrysanthemums. Yellow and purple. He smiles at them warily.

“You know,” he starts before he can stop himself, “In some cultures, chrysanthemums symbolise death.”

“Is that so?” Cross doesn’t flinch, smooth as he easily leans in towards Dream, close enough to kiss but simply leaning in to smell the flowers instead. “Not why I chose them, but fitting regardless.”

He meets Dream’s eye, gaze fierce, steady. Dream reads in them something he’s long since known.

 _I’d die for you,_ that look says. _I’d die a thousand deaths if it meant I could save you._

Dream looks away, turning around with the flowers still held carefully in his arms. His head hurts. And if his face is hot and his soul pulsing a little irregularly, it’s simply because of the circumstances. Or maybe he’s allergic to the flowers.

“Come along then. I’ll put these in a vase in the kitchen.”

“We ought to get dinner started as well,” Cross adds, following behind him.

“About that,” Dream begins, and it’s as they’re passing by the room with recipe books strewn across the floor that Cross makes a stunned noise behind him. Dream quickens his pace to the kitchen, hoping it’ll urge Cross to hurry along after him and not ogle his shame. “I was looking for something we could make tonight.”

Cross’ eyelights are heavy on Dream as he sets the flowers down on the kitchen island and searches for a vase from the cabinets. “And… did you find anything?” the guard prompts.

Dream feels the flush on his face heat up a little more, and his words come out a tad speedier than usual as he sets a vase on the counter and searches for a pair of scissors to trim the stems. “Yes, well. It’s not really something you can just choose at random, right? If it’s a special night, then we should have a special meal, and not any old recipe from your frankly superfluous collection will do, especially when there’s no telling if it’ll be palatable to both our tastes—”

He cuts off as a warm hand settles over his own, stilling his movement. Dream stares at the phalanges resting on his hand with barely any pressure. Tentacles flicking at his back as his confusion mounts, Dream looks up at Cross whose smile is warm and thoroughly out of the blue.

He’s standing quite close to Dream.

“We can choose something to make together,” he says, voice as equally warm, and it only occurs to Dream after a long moment has passed that he should move his hand or put some distance between them before his soul gets any ideas about acting up again.

Instead, he stays exactly where he is and places a significant effort into not turning his hand palm up so that he can interlock his fingers with Cross’.

“Yes,” he murmurs. For some reason, his tone matches Cross’ gentle whisper. “That would be agreeable.”

The soft smile broadens into a grin, lighting up Cross’ face and causing his eyesockets to scrunch up a little. Dream is once again bewildered as Cross takes his hand in his own and tugs them back over to where the embarrassing mess of cookbooks lie. ‘Flummoxed’ might be too much of an exaggeration of Dream’s current state as his gaze is pulled back to their clasped hands, but he cannot deny the surge of emotions within him at Cross’ simple action. It’s been quite some time since someone ever held his hand, and bizarrely, it almost seems intimate.

Cross doesn’t let go when they peruse the books, nor when he picks up one of them with his free hand. He turns to Dream, excitement close to overflowing as if he’s been topped to the brim with a positivity high.

“This one has got a couple of my favorite recipes in it. I think you might like them. Wanna help me pick something for us and then work on it together?”

Together. The word does something funny to Dream, at first making him feel light and breathless as Cross smiles at him again with that pervasive hope of his. Immediately after, the biting repercussion of Dream’s emotions hits him like a wave, and it takes an alarming portion of Dream’s willpower to not betray the agony in his expression.

He masks it all behind a nod, and thankfully, Cross doesn’t notice this time. He leads them back to the kitchen, his back mercifully to Dream so that he can try to recollect himself as the pounding in the left side of his head flares several times before grudgingly settling. Sparks dance in his vision, but they seem inconsequential when Dream’s hand is lightly squeezed.

“Hm?” he says, blinking up into Cross’ face a couple times until the sight isn’t blurry.

Cross gives him a worried once-over but presses on. “I was just thinking that if we’re gonna cook, your gloves will get dirty…”

“Oh.” Dream’s eyelight flicks down to their hands where Cross’s thumb brushes tenderly over Dream’s knuckles seemingly without any thought behind the motion.

He’s about to dismiss the thought—tell Cross it makes no difference to him if he’ll have to wash his gloves later—when Cross carefully raises Dream’s hand up between them. It makes Dream snap his mouth shut, abrupt, watching transfixed as Cross continues to absently stroke his thumb over the back of Dream’s hand before deftly reaching out and tugging on the material. Little by little, he pulls at the fabric by the tips of Dream’s phalanges, gently pulling them loose. It takes maybe a few seconds for Cross to tug his glove off entirely, the silky material running over his bones like water, but the moment seems to last an eternity.

Once the one glove is off, Cross repeats the same motions with his other hand, bringing it up to eye level and then slowly undressing it until Dream’s hands are bare to him. Smiling, Cross places the gloves onto the counter. Then, he adjusts his hold on Dream’s hands, taking them both in his and bringing them up to his mouth. Dream knows it’s coming, but somehow it still leaves him breathless when Cross presses his teeth to his hands in the facsimile of a kiss.

He meets Dream’s stare, startlingly handsome with a light dusting of purple across his cheeks, “Shall we?”

Rendered mute by the display, it’s all Dream can do to follow as Cross guides him to the other side of the kitchen to start on their meal.

After that, it’s as if Dream is lost in a spell, unable to take back control of the situation as Cross takes the lead. He explains the recipe and directs Dream towards the materials, the two of them grabbing bowls and knives and cutting boards. He corrects the way Dream chops his vegetables, hands patient and guiding as he places them over Dream’s own. His voice is soft and knowledgeable while fixing Dream’s amateur mistakes, firm but never abrasive.

It feels both overwhelming and somehow safe. Dream is surrounded by Cross’ broad chest at his back and big hands on his own, gentle and warm. Without his gloves, the intimacy feels intensified and Dream tries his best not to think too deeply on the way Cross’ rough bones feel against his smooth, inky ones.

It’s all too soon when Cross beams at him from the steaming plates piled high with the food they’ve made.

“Smells good.” Cross grins.

Dream offers a noncommittal hum. “Smell will do us no good if the taste leaves something to be desired.”

“I think we did alright.” Cross picks up the plates, one in each hand and nods his head towards the next room over. “Let’s give it a taste.”

When they arrive in the dining room, Dream sees an innocuous bottle already waiting on the table, two glasses resting beside it. He smirks at Cross as the broad shouldered skeleton steps in after him and places the plates on the table.

“It would seem you thought of this well in advance.” Dream picks up the bottle, sharp grin widening as Cross flushes deeper. “Were you planning on getting me relaxed and pliant for you this evening?”

Cross chokes on a breath. The purple on his face is vibrant as he ducks his head and aims his gaze anywhere but at Dream. “It wasn’t my intention to suggest anything. I just— It seemed like a nice thought at the time—”

“Sit down, Cross. I meant nothing by it.” Dream gestures for him to take a seat, lowering himself onto his own chair as he begins to open the bottle and pour its content into the wine glasses. “I’m just surprised. You don’t seem like the type to shop for alcohol.”

“I, uh… I didn’t buy it.”

Dream pauses mid pour, lifting a brow-bone at Cross who fidgets in his seat, the sweet taste of his embarrassment rising.

“I still have access to the code of your brother’s old universe. Y’know, where his castle is. And since no one’s been there in awhile— And I mean, the wine cellar would have just sat there abandoned for who knows how long anyways—!”

Dream laughs. The sound startles out of his chest, carefree and delighted. He couldn’t have possibly held it back. The whole situation is just so amusing—Cross, being the perfect, obedient soldier that he is, breaking into Nightmare’s empty castle to pillage the wine for his and Dream’s own enjoyment. It’s hilarious and so unlike the image Cross usually puts off that Dream’s laughter spills out far too fast for him to contain it.

The merriment dissolves within an instant to be replaced by pain as the corruption punishes him for the onslaught of positivity. Dream gasps, hands clutching the table, and it’s a very lucky thing the precious stolen bottle of wine doesn’t tip over after being placed down so sharply.

Dream hears Cross’ own cry of alarm, but even as he’s pushing back his chair with a loud screech against the floor, Dream holds up a hand. Cross halts in place on command.

This time, it takes longer to regain his breath.

Careful. He needs to be very careful not to keep making mistakes like this. Tonight promises to yield nothing but nightmares at this rate, and it’s very plausible Dream may avoid sleep again just to bypass them. If that’s the case, he can’t keep driving himself into a brick wall.

But there’s something about Cross that just makes the positive feelings so effortless lately. And in a confounding paradox, Dream realizes he can’t determine if he wants them to stop or keep happening. Every ounce of him hurts whenever Cross makes him smile, but the sacrifice for seeing and feeling Cross’ own happiness is almost a fair exchange.

Dream wishes he could get the maddening thoughts in his head back under control. It’s almost like he’s returning Cross’ silly affection.

Cross hasn’t moved an inch since Dream motioned him to wait, but every second Dream takes, the higher Cross’ panic climbs. Finally, when at last he’s caught his breath, Dream looks over at him and drops his hand.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

The way Cross grinds his teeth to hold back an instinctive response could be called impressive. Dream gives him a moment to collect his thoughts, his jaw working and a frustrated breath heaving out of his nasal cavity.

“You said that already today,” Cross says, voice measured. “There’s clearly something wrong. Did anything happen? Or are you injured?”

“It’s nothing.” Dream talks over him hastily, holding back a wince at the pure agitation written in every one of Cross’ bones.

He tries again. “If it was a pressing matter, I would tell you.”

His bodyguard looks far from convinced. “Would you? You seem to be keeping a lot to yourself lately.”

“With good reason,” Dream returns. The mantra _‘remember your place’_ is right on the tip of his tongue, and Dream knows if he said it, Cross would back off instantly. But following such a reaction often includes Cross closing off from Dream, withdrawing to deal with his own frustration because Dream won’t ‘let him in’ as Cross so often begs of him.

Despite everything, Dream doesn’t want to ruin this. There’s no telling if tonight will be a one-and-done arrangement, but even if that’s the case, it should still be special. He wants Cross to enjoy this shared time.

So, rather than give in to his usual urge to fight, Dream rescinds. He offers an olive branch in the form of a wine glass, presenting it to Cross with an inquisitive sound and a placating expression.

Cross eyes the glass, then him, before the tension slowly leaves his body and he accepts it with no small amount of hesitance.

Dream lifts his own in his hand and with a tiny quirk of his mouth, he reaches out and tips his glass of wine against Cross’, clinking them together. The reaction is small, but Dream reads Cross like a book and spots the subtle smile on his face.

It’s a start.

It could be because the wine was retrieved from his brother’s personal stash, but as Dream drinks deeply from it, he thinks the taste is lovely. A savory thing that lingers on his tongue, and he sets aside the glass in favor of enjoying his meal.

Cross watches him like a hawk as Dream takes his first bite, the wine glass that was pressed into his hand still gripped tightly as if it’s the only thing grounding him. As it is, the uncertainty doesn’t linger for long, and Dream’s shock must be evident on his face because Cross snorts attractively, and the grin from earlier makes a reappearance.

“Good?” He asks, teasing.

It’s more than good. Dream chews the delicious mouthful and is surprised that after going so long without eating simply because he had no need to, the food is wonderful. He politely covers his mouth behind his hand as he swallows.

“You tell me,” he replies, and Cross takes the cue to taste it for himself.

“It’s great,” Cross laughs, his aura confirming his pleasure at the taste. His voice is excited, genuinely enthused at the effort he’s put in paying off. “You did amazing!”

He looks good when he smiles like that, and it’s enough to make Dream huff a short laugh of his own. “You did the bulk of the work.”

Cross shakes his head, reaching across the small table for two and placing his hand on Dream’s.

Despite having felt the warmth of it earlier, Dream still startles, though it’s subtle enough that Cross doesn’t notice. He glances back at the kitchen, where his gloves still lay on the counter and wonders at why he didn’t put them back on at the end of all the cooking.

“We did it together,” Cross says, voice soft, “As a team.”

This time, when the pulse of positivity hits him, Dream is prepared. He doesn’t flinch, even when the feeling curls around his soul and squeezes. He ignores it, the sharp feeling poking and prodding, demanding his attention. He focuses on turning up his palm and holding Cross’ hand in his own instead. Cross is evidently surprised by the action, glancing down and then up again, but by the time he opens his mouth to ask about it, Dream is already slipping his hand back and picking up his spoon once more, ready to eat the next bite.

With Cross’ praise lighting up his thoughts and the feeling of their hands against each other still tingling along his palms, it doesn’t escape Dream’s notice that the next spoonful tastes even better than the last.

The rest of dinner goes off without a hitch, quiet dialogue filling the lull.

It’s nice, Dream has to admit. They don’t often just sit and enjoy themselves, trading inconsequential anecdotes back and forth. He finds himself entranced by how well Cross carries a conversation, so used to his companion being quiet and brooding. It seems the more Dream listens, the more confident Cross grows, leading from one story to the next, telling joke after joke until Dream smiles in earnest, the pain in his soul a constant, overbearing presence that he has no choice but to swallow down without complaint.

By the time they’ve cleared off the table and put the dishes in the sink, Dream is loose-limbed and relaxed. They head towards the couch, and the minute Dream sits, he sinks into the plush comfort of the cushions. Next to him, Cross is much the same way, verbally sighing in relief as he takes a seat.

“What now?” Dream asks.

“Thought we could end our night off with a movie,” Cross explains, settling against the cushions and dropping one arm off the back of the couch.

Studying him now, in the dim light of the room as Cross flicks on the TV, bathing them in the cold blue hues of the screen, Cross looks the same as yesterday. Though there’s a smile on his face, the exhaustion lingers like a shadow, visible under his sockets and in the slouch of his posture.

“Or we could turn in,” he suggests, “It’s been quite a day.”

Cross turns that increasingly frequent, cryptic look on him as he mulls over Dream’s words. Undeterred by the blatant search for answers, Dream examines him back. He’s not interested in opening up to Cross about his own current issues, but at least this time, his offer is one for Cross’ benefit. There’s no hidden agenda behind it, and after a moment of consideration, Cross appears to accept that as well.

The small, weary smile he gives Dream is appreciative.

“Thanks, but I’d rather just spend the rest of the evening with you. If you’re okay with it, that is.”

Adorable, really. The charming purple blush shows on his face once more, and despite himself, Dream thinks Cross’ shyness is quite precious.

“I never said you had to go to bed,” he remarks. “If you want to rest here with me, that is fine.”

He narrows his eye and grins, leaning across the couch and into Cross’ space. “You’re still on duty, after all. What kind of date would you be if you left me all on my own with no one to guard or keep me warm as I sleep?”

“I…” Cross probably couldn’t widen his eyesockets anymore if he tried. Dream enjoys the effect he still has on him. It’s so easy to leave him speechless and floundering with just a smooth tone and a couple of hushed words in the minimal space between them.

He chuckles and leans back against the arm of the couch, thoroughly pleased.

“Why don’t you pick a movie for us to watch, and if either of us fall asleep during it, then so be it. As long as we enjoy ourselves and each other’s company, that is more than enough, correct?”

“Y-yeah.”

Amazing how Cross has yet to combust from how heated his face looks.

His companion turns back to the TV, flustered state eventually relaxing as he selects something for them to watch. Dream does his best to pay at least some attention to the plot even as his attention wars with it and the skeleton sitting next to him.

At some point, Cross flicks off the lights, and when he resettles on the couch, he feels like he’s much closer to Dream this time, even if it’s likely only an inch of difference. Dream glances over at him as he senses the flicker of emotions emanating from the other like he’s indecisive. After several long minutes of tense nothing between them, Dream sighs and slithers a tendril to where Cross’ arm is draped behind the couch. It coils around Cross’ wrist, latching tight and tugging him close until he’s suddenly pressed against his side, the tentacle pulling his arm around Dream’s shoulder.

Cross makes an undignified sound, but Dream fastens his eyelight on the screen and says nothing, though he feels his cheeks flush. The nervous but excited behavior next to him thoroughly distracts Dream.

In time, however, Cross finds his courage and finally relaxes into him, his weight a comforting presence along Dream’s side, as is the arm loosely draped around him. Another quiet moment passes, and then Cross places just a bit of pressure on Dream’s shoulder. Dream bites back a satisfied smirk, but he has a feeling Cross knows of his smug triumph anyways.

With the absence of Cross’ anxiousness comes a sweep of tiredness. He won’t be able to fight sleep for long at this point, and something inside of Dream settles at seeing him calm at last.

Close to an hour has passed when Cross’ head begins to dip, the allure of sleep beckoning enticingly. If his head just so happens to begin to lean against Dream’s shoulder as he sinks deeper into the couch, then neither of them comment on it.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Cross asks, so quiet that it’s as if he almost doesn’t want Dream to hear the question.

In the privacy of the darkened room, Dream’s face softens. “I did,” he whispers back, and Cross sleepily nods his head in response.

“Good,” he says, though it’s more a murmur, and as Dream predicted, Cross soon falls into a peaceful sleep shortly after. His chest rises and falls with every soft breath, and Dream listens more to that than the actual movie.

Having such blatant trust placed into his hands from the other is addictive and surely foolhardy.

And yet, there’s fondness as well. No one else has Cross’ sworn loyalty. No one else gets to see him like this, defenseless and relaxed. His trust is something to be treasured, not broken, and it’s because of that that Dream incrementally wraps a tentacle around Cross’ waist and very gently moves him.

It’s not too great of an ordeal to rearrange their positions on the couch. Cross isn't often a heavy sleeper as of late, but the exhaustion has evidently worn him down to near the point of collapse. With great care, he lays back against the arm of the couch and situates Cross on top of himself, his head on Dream’s chest. Cross doesn’t react to the moving at all other than to weakly clutch the fabric of Dream’s shirt.

Settling two of his tentacles over him to ensure he doesn’t roll off in his sleep, Dream continues to keep a careful eye on Cross, fascinated by his sleeping features that are now slack as he remains blissfully unconscious. Dream doesn’t begrudge him the lack of nightmares. If anything, he prefers Cross well-rested because it means he doesn’t have to spend time worrying that something may happen to him if he slips up from being unaware of his surroundings.

And maybe it soothes some restless part of Dream at knowing that at least in this way, he can take care of his guard. Sleep doesn’t seem likely for him tonight, but for once, the roles are reversed, and Dream can keep an eye out for him, protective and watchful.

He lets one of his hands rest on Cross’ skull, the other finding the hand Cross has twisted into Dream’s shirt. Oh so carefully, Dream pries Cross’ hand free and replaces the clutched fabric with his own fingers. Cross accepts his new grip without the slightest stirring, only the subtlest of twitches of his own phalanges closing around Dream’s.

Ignoring the pang in his soul, Dream keeps a hold of Cross’ hand all through the night, long after the movie finishes and the room grows silent save for the gentle breathing of them both. He stays vigilant well into the morning.


End file.
